Visits
by Vathara
Summary: Picking locks, and chicken pox. Crossover with Stargate.


****

Visits

A/N: Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal, Stargate: SG-1 is the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. Airwolf is AU (moved ahead about twenty years). Small spoilers for SG-1's "Gamekeeper".

~*~*~*~*~  
Le Van Hawke squirmed against the arm of the swing by Eagle Lake, trying to scratch without really scratching. Red spotted hands and arms, made the young teen's Eurasian face a nearly-unrecognizable mass of crimson dots. "This _sucks_."

"Ah, don't it just." Dominic Santini leaned complacently back in the other half of the swing, chicken pox-prone days long behind him.

"Happens," Stringfellow Hawke shrugged, eyeing his nephew's hand until it dropped away from itchy bumps. 

"A positive annoyance," Michael Archangel acknowledged, taking slim metal implements out of a slender black leather case. At his right hand stood a small stool, atop which were laid out a series of progressively more elaborate combination locks. "The best thing to do is concentrate on something else. If you can." 

"It _itches_."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," Caitlin O'Shannessy sighed, plucking up one of the simpler locks. Red brows drew down with concentration as she studied it from all angles before deciding on a piece of wire to make her first attempt. "'Course, didn't help that I knew _just_ who I got it from. Momma made me stay in my sister's room after she broke out, just so's I'd get it then an' she wouldn't have to do it twice." Hazel eyes rolled. "An' in the middle of a Texas summer, too. Ah was _miserable_." 

"Yes; consider yourself fortunate you have pleasant surroundings to wait out the course of the infection in." The white-clad spy waved toward the ranks of pines, the glitter that was Eagle Lake behind them. "I found myself confined within an upstate New York residence with entirely too much time on my hands." He _hmph_ed. "I assure you, it gives one true impetus to learn the proper manner in which to disable security systems." 

Le Van stared, itchy arms temporarily forgotten. "Who could lock _you_ up?" 

Michael hesitated. "My parents." 

String raised an eyebrow. Hard to remember, sometimes, that the master of spies hadn't simply stepped out of some dark alley in a white trench coat and a Panama hat. _Right. Like you were born in a chopper_. 

"Oohh." Dom's graying brows waggled with interest. "Sounds like we got a story, here."

A lift of a hand waved it off. "It's nothing, really." 

"Somebody tried to keep you in one place, an' it's nothing?" Caitlin shook her head. "C'mon, Michael...."

"Yeah! What'd you do?" Le Van bounced in his seat.

"Spent the first two days going over every fencing move I knew at the time and the grammars of three different languages," Michael said frankly, twirling combination knobs. "After that, I started sinking swiftly into the loathsome pit of cabin fever." 

"You never could handle being bored," Dom commented. 

"True," Archangel acknowledged. "I suppose I should have stuck to the language studies; it's what my parents wanted. They... did a lot of travelling, internationally-"

"Michael." _Talk about it, or don't_, String glared at the man. _Your choice. But you promised you wouldn't lie to Le._

A slight sigh. "They were in the business," Michael admitted. 

Le nodded slowly. "Like you guys. And Dad."

"More like your father before we located him, unfortunately." Michael rubbed at the skin by the darkened side of his glasses. "When a person enters the Company - or the Firm, these days - their spouse and family end up living the legend. The... cover identity," he clarified, mindful of his young audience. "Until I entered college, I doubt I'd ever used my real name." 

"Not always a bad thing," String chuckled quietly, remembering his own reaction the first time Marella had rolled it all out. _Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III?_

A bright blue glance pierced him. "I wouldn't throw stones, _Stringfellow_." 

"So what'd you do?" Le stopped bouncing, finally picking up the lock picks set out in front of him. 

"Had a stroke of luck, though I didn't recognize it as such at the time." Michael leaned back in his chair, demonstrating where to start on the lock. "That night, someone brought us a houseguest...."

~*~*~*~*~  
_Upstate New York. Almost thirty years ago._

"...saying it's a freak accident...." 

The young teen currently going by the name of Michael Wolfe crouched in the shadows by the head of the stairs, listening to the soft whispers below, dressed and cautious despite the late hour. And trying not to scratch. 

The front door had banged open not three minutes ago, and that was never good. 

__

I don't want to go. This time - I don't want to go.

Not that it would matter what he wanted. His parents were Company. If they had to move, they had to move. 

"A coverstone falls on top of two people who should know better, and it's an accident?" His mother, Ariella, in the cool tone that meant she was sizing up a target. 

"Tell it to the NYPD," grumbled an unfamiliar voice. "They believe the museum director." 

"You think it's because they did good work." His father, level, but worried. 

__

Michael Coldsmith-Briggs II, Michael thought, indulging in the rare, bitter luxury of remembering a real name. _Someone in the Game is dead?_

Couldn't be Company operatives. That would have been _some of us_, not just people who _did good work_. So... agents, defectors, foreign operatives....

"Is he in danger?" Ariella; but softer now. Michael frowned, hearing cloth rustle, a child's whimper.

The stranger sighed. "He saw the whole thing." 

Ariella sucked in a breath, gathered up something Michael heard shiver. "Poor little one." 

"He hasn't said anything to indicate anyone else was involved," the stranger said bluntly. "But given the circumstances - we'd rather have him secure until we can locate his relatives." 

"My son has chicken pox." Spoken as if the words were an admission of weakness, by the man who went by Michael Wolfe, Senior here, and a host of other names abroad. 

"Even better." The stranger's voice had the dry, casual irony so typical of the Company. "When the relatives do show, we can just tell them the kid's been sick. Explains anything he might repeat that his parents let slip." Hasty steps back. "You'll take him? It should only be a few weeks."

Michael could hear the frown in his father's voice. "I'm going out. Inside two hours." 

__

Going out. Michael winced, masked it with the ease of long practice. Another mission. And his father hadn't said anything. Of course. 

"My wife will be alone. I don't think-"

"I can handle him." Ariella's voice was quietly confident, with a tenderness Michael hadn't heard in a long time. Since the Company doctor had told his parents there would be no other children. "What's your name, little one?" 

Silence. 

"He... doesn't speak English too well, yet," the stranger said wryly. "Try German. Or Arabic. Egyptian would be best." A rustle of paper. "This is what you need to know." Another, louder rustle. "Your major docs, signing him into your temporary guardianship. We'll be in touch."

The door closed on a whisper of wind; Michael listened to the soft clicks of his parents setting the locks back in place. "You might as well come down, Michael," his mother called in German. "Meet Daniel." 

__

Blue, was Michael's first impression; wide and fearful eyes, under a mop of blond hair framing an eight-year-old face. Dressed in someone's hand-me-downs, a small leather satchel clutched in thin arms. _Silent_.

A silence suddenly broken, as Daniel blinked and looked at him. "You're all spots." German; at least as good as Ariella's. "Are you going to die, too?" 

Michael stopped, taken aback. "It's chicken pox," he answered in the same language, puzzled. "No one dies from chicken pox." No matter _how_ much it itched.

"The Great Pox isn't in America anymore, Daniel," Ariella smiled. "You saw that in Egypt, yes? People who'd survived the Great Pox?" 

"Yes." A quiet, wary whisper. "And the cemeteries-" 

"Take him upstairs and put him to bed," his father said brusquely. "I've got to finish packing."

It was a restless night. 

~*~*~*~*~  
The thin light of dawn etched its way through the bathroom skylight, painted a teenage face in white and spotted red and bruise-black circles under Michael's eyes. He noted the marks of sleeplessness, shrugged. He'd seen his parents work with worse. 

Most of the sleepless night was Daniel's fault. No sooner would the boy drop off to sleep than he'd be whimpering, crying, even - one heart-stopping moment - screaming at the top of small lungs. 

That had been bad. That had brought Ariella out in a whirl of nightgown and revolver, ready and willing to kill anything that had gotten through their security. 

Too bad bullets couldn't slay nightmares. 

But Michael found he didn't mind. Much. Daniel was a puzzle, a distraction, and heaven only knew he needed a distraction right now. 

Breakfast was quiet, his mother keeping up a steady stream of German for their sudden guest, coaxing him into a good meal of eggs and pancakes. Bacon... well. Daniel studied a strip from all angles, then asked if his hosts had meant offense - which, of course, he was sure they hadn't - or was he in a Christian household and no one had told him?

Michael ended up eating the bacon.

Now a stray tinkle of notes caught his ear; Michael followed the trail of sound, tracing it to the piano in the foyer. Ah. One errant houseguest, located. 

Daniel caught sight of him, dropped the cover back on the keyboard with a musical _crash_. "I- I'm s-sorry-" 

"It's all right," Michael said carefully, noting the stutter. _Kid's about to jump out of his skin_. "I didn't know you played." 

"P-played?" 

"The piano." _Where have his parents been_ keeping _this kid?_

"This is a piano?" Warily, Daniel pried the cover back open, looked over black and white keys. "What's it do?" 

For a second Michael was caught completely off-guard. _What's it_ do? _It's a piano!_ "Sit down. I'll show you." 

He stretched his hands, started on some of the lessons he'd endured for years. Finger exercises, a few classics.... 

__

You will never be one of the best, a recent tutor had said bluntly. _Passable, only_.

Michael glanced about - a futile effort, he knew, his mother would be able to hear _this_ a mile away - and banged his way into rock-and-roll. Conscious of a wide-eyed waif, clinging to the side of the piano as if he wanted to soak the music into his very bones. 

Apparently passable was good enough for Daniel. 

~*~*~*~*~  
"Are you _sure_ we're supposed to be doing this?" 

"Oh, absolutely," Michael said blithely, inserting his bit of twisted wire into the cookie jar's padlock. He'd managed to determine Daniel understood English moderately well; at least as well as Michael spoke Italian, anyway. The younger boy just wasn't sure he pronounced words well enough to be understood. So Michael had coaxed Daniel into English by presenting it as a trade; English words for Arabic. "My mother's very into reward-based learning." As opposed to his father, who wasn't inclined to reward him for anything. Punish him, yes, when he couldn't measure up to standards.... 

"But it's locked." 

"That's the point." A wiggle here, a twist there... ah. Michael took off the open lock, took out his chocolate-chip prize, clicked the lock shut again. Bit into chocolate bliss. _Yum._ "If you can get it open, you can have a cookie. If you want one." 

No question from the interest in blue eyes that Daniel did want one. He reached for the lock, hesitated. "But I don't know how."

"It's not that hard." Which was true. It had to be true; Michael's parents had drummed that into him from day one. You might lie, and cheat, and steal, and even kill to protect your country's secrets. But you never lied to a fellow officer in the service. Ever.

In the wilderness of mirrors, all you had was each other. 

Still. It might take hours, and a lot of frustrated fumbling, and possibly even a temper tantrum or two.

But a tantrum might be a good thing, compared to Daniel's wraithlike silence. He'd known a few other kids who'd lost family in the business. In the Game. It _hurt_.

"Come on, let me show you."

~*~*~*~*~  
"...So you apply a few shadows over the cheekbones here, and you look like someone else entirely," Michael demonstrated, turning his victim toward the mirror to view the results.

Daniel stared, smudged off the face powder. "Eww!" 

"I didn't say it'd be a good-looking someone else," Michael laughed, putting down the makeup brush. It'd been an interesting week, figuring out what of the eight-year-old's carefully-held satchel was just archaeology supplies, and what could be put to... more useful purposes. Certainly a makeup brush could be used for brushing dust away from fragile relics; it could also be used for its original purpose, to cloak an identity one might not want immediately recognized. Dental picks could clear out more sturdy debris - or make a fair kit for surreptitious entry, if you couldn't be caught with the real thing. And as for inks of various kinds and colors, paintbrushes from marker thick to eyelash-thin... Daniel might say his mother was an artist, but it wasn't far from there to artist/validator. 

Or, as those not in the business would say, _forger_.

__

Don't ask. You haven't been cleared, so don't ask.

But darn it! He wanted to _know_.

"Daniel?" Ariella stood in the doorway, southern Celtic features unaccountably solemn. "It's time to go." 

Scrubbing off makeup with a sneeze, Daniel scrambled to his feet. "Go where, Mrs. Wolfe?" 

Ariella's smile was sad, and resigned, and brave. "We found your grandfather." 

~*~*~*~*~  
"I never saw him again," Michael concluded quietly, open lock forgotten in one hand. 

Dominic frowned. "You didn't go looking for him?"

"I never knew his real name. Just as he never knew mine." Archangel shrugged, carefully casual. "If I'd ever asked questions, I might have put his cover in danger." 

"Could ask now," String pointed out.

A blond brow arched. "It's been almost thirty years, Hawke. What would be the point?" 

"You'd know." 

Silence. Michael glanced away.

Caitlin cleared her throat. "You know, your momma sounds like a good woman. I'd like to meet her, sometime." 

"Yes, well..." Michael set the padlock down. "I was... considering introducing Marella to her."

Dead silence. 

"Whoa," Le Van breathed. 

"Well, it's about damn time!" Dominic slapped a hand on his thigh. "Thought we'd have to dump you two in the old Lair in the middle of January. With _one_ blanket!"

Archangel snorted. "You wouldn't have dared." 

String gave him a slow, evil smile.

"Good lord, you would have. Hawke!" 

~*~*~*~*~

Ariella - lioness of God.


End file.
